


The Agonising Loss of those Found

by cnd555



Series: In Between the Dreams [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 10:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21097760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnd555/pseuds/cnd555
Summary: Years after El he meets a stranger.Disclaimer: Implied past abusive relationship





	The Agonising Loss of those Found

**Author's Note:**

> Rated mature for profanity and implied past abusive relationship.

Years after El he meets a stranger.

He’s tall, honest and rough. Everything she wasn’t. And perhaps that was why he chose him. Selfish him, really. It’s not like the ever-present fog of her perfume has lifted, nor the scars on his wrists decided it needed a new home. No, it wasn’t like that at all.

It’s all new and he finds himself hesitant. The stranger is patient, loyal to a fault. Matt skirts on the edges between accepting and denying and when the storm clouds begin to roll he teeters on the bridge, El’s voice just over the cascade.

That’s really how he met him; Frank, following a melody. _Come with me, Matthew…_

The sea still beats the shore and he takes it and takes it, addicted. The wind slaps him and Matt’s beyond cold, his hands refuse to let go of the ledge. It’s a dark day, the rain poured but it’s been pouring for years. He is surrounded by rivers tempting him to look over the edge, close enough for them to ensnare him in their current and whisk him away.

“I guess you’re lost too, huh?” A voice says with a sigh. He hadn’t known that someone was next to him. Matt bows his head. The sea still calls for him. The wind carries her voice, _come Matthew…_

He’s forgotten everything but her. She encompasses him as he would imagine the ocean tightly hugging the breath out of him. His poor father’s face, his poor father’s voice, all gone to the sea, sunken, wet and subdued. He cannot remember the lines of his dad’s face, the colour of his eyes, the timbre of his voice. But he could remember hers; green she said her eyes were, brown hair, thick and soft and smelt of hydrangea, her voice sleek as silk, full of mirth with an undertone of perversity.

His father is gone and Elektra is just over the sea.

Matt remembers that the stranger is still there but all he can offer the man beside him is a pathetic nod.

“Wanna talk about it?” No, not really, Matt thinks. It wasn’t like he was going to do it. He was just chasing a memory, chasing a dream. He could hear the waves break on the shoreline, its rhythmic lulling entrancing Matt to a time. “Wanna hear mine?”

He’s intrigued, had he heard right? Strange thing to ask a stranger, really. Matt cannot even utter a lonely word that flutters and writhes and begs to escape but this man seems eager to set the swallow free. “Sure,” Matt says. If he wants an ear then he’s in luck. All Matt has are ears.

“Marine. Two tours.” His voice is rough, fitting for the lifestyle Matt knows all his life. The biting wind, the bitter waves, the gurgling of the dead’s last breath. “Fill in the blanks.”

Matt turns his face to the man beside him all honest and serious, “I’m fine.”

The stranger laughs and for a time Matt forgets a melody.

“And I’m not.”

*

First it was Josie’s where Frank got into fisticuffs with a man too up his arse to realise that the bartender has no interest in him.

Of course Frank threw the first punch and taking that as an invitation, Matt threw himself into the brawl and then all he knew was that they were being kicked out and laughing laughing laughing and letting the wind carry their mischief around Hell’s Kitchen.

Matt, being the fuck up that he is, revelled in Frank’s violence. Perhaps Frank was not such a stranger after all. Matt would know, he knew brutality all too well.

They’re walking the streets aimlessly, Matt’s arm snaking his way to Frank’s welcoming elbow, his cane tucked neatly away in his pocket. The night apparently, is still young. “Fuck, Red. You look fucked up.” Matt guffaws, leaning back to feel the breeze on his face better, cool air a juxtaposition to the hot bloom on his cheek. “You should see the other guy,” he jokes.

Frank makes a noise, Matt wonders if he’s smirking. He wonders if Frank will ask him how he learnt to fight like a boxer, wonders if Frank will question his disability, his ability, his appetite for violence, but all he receives is a lovely compliment through a grunt, “nice right hook.” Matt grins.

There wasn’t no apology for the fuss Frank caused, no, he wasn’t sorry at all for the fight he fought. Frank did everything with an honest purpose and Matt liked that a lot. She did too, just with more collusion.

It wasn’t like Frank did not have his demon, it was just that Frank actively tried to rid of them. Maybe Matt could take a few pointers.

But that night when they had stumbled a little intoxicated into Matt’s apartment, the ghosts were quiet, hidden in the cracks and the floorboards and not so loud anymore. There was more lighting in his place and he could tell from the way Frank slowed his movements that Frank was reading the wounds on his face. The way Frank tentatively touched the skin around his cut made Matt flinch. El’s touch was piercing but then again she would have been the one to put that mark on him. Frank’s is a whisper, encircled an invisible field around his shallow wound, afraid to hurt him but wanted to heal him instead.

Too much, all too much.

Familiar and yet vastly foreign.

Matt pulled away.

*

They’re at Foggy’s, sat in his dining room having dinner and Matt can tell Frank’s on his best behaviour. Well… as best as Frank can try. He can feel Frank check himself but Matt can tell Frank’s intensity still whizzed beneath his skin, itching and building and the room is full of static. Matt guesses Foggy can feel it too, what with him being fidgety and breathlessly laughing every two seconds. Matt hears Karen clucking at Foggy like a disapproving mother.

When they all got introduced, Frank calls Karen “ma’am” and Matt could almost _see_ Foggy’s bewilderment. In his passing from the foyer to the living room he could hear Foggy whisper, “who _is_ he?” and Karen reply, “Frank Castle. Weren’t you listening?”

By the time food’s at the table, Foggy’s still dubious (understandable), Karen’s inquisitive (typical) and Frank’s beautiful (shocking).

“Friends since college, huh?” Frank asks.

Foggy laughs from an old memory, “yeah, he latched onto me like a lost puppy,” Foggy replies.

Matt makes a face, “that’s not how I remembered it.”

The table laughs and Matt hears Frank say, “tell me all the Hell you both raised.” And it’s like the winds changed. Matt can taste the salty breeze blow in from the open window, feel the warm beam of sunlight emitting from Foggy.

Foggy takes a theatrical deep breath and spills all of their wild college days of parties that lightweight Matt had passed out in, of the time Foggy had projectile vomited all over their bathroom and laughing so hard in the tub (the only clean space) at Matt’s disgusted face as he intoxicatingly tried to clean up the sick as per Foggy’s drunken directions. There were undigested bits of yellow corn cobs everywhere! By the end of it, Matt was covered in thick brown spew but he had a wide grin on his face, a bubble of laughter ready to burst at the absurdity of it all.

While all of Matt’s dirty secrets were revealed in the air, Matt can’t help but feel Frank’s endearment for him swell, that warm palm making its way unconsciously to his thigh and staying.

That night when Frank walked him home, his husky voice was softer, lower, his touch featherlight, his heartbeat slow slow slow. Matt wonders if this is what falling in love should feel like; gentle, steady, easy. He couldn’t understand how Frank was falling for him so unhurriedly and lazily. Like a leisured spring Sunday. El’s was wildfires and tornados, confusing and so complex Matt was swept away by her all her storms. 

By the end of dinner, Karen’s swooned by a bad boy who’s a good man and Foggy’s distress a long forgotten nightmare and Frank, well Frank fits like an old friend.

*

Then it was at his father’s old gym. Seems the old haunts are lived in again. They sparred, bareknuckle brawling and Frank doesn’t pull his punches and Matt bristles in the ring. He can’t believe his luck that Frank even agreed, but Matt doesn’t want to think too hard about it lest he ruins a good thing. Let sleeping dogs lie. Finally, fucking finally he feels alive.

Matt skirts the ring as easily as he can read braille; controlled and practiced and Frank is all brute force and imprecise. Matt gets some good punches in before Frank gets frustrated and then it’s Matt pulling the punches.

“Don’t get soft on me, Red,” Frank grumbles, deep and penetrating.

He barks a laugh and Matt dances around the arena, teasing and giving. He listens to Frank’s footfalls. They’re his weakness, Frank’s feet. Heavy, slow and thunderous, stomping towards him and Matt dodges Frank’s fists as easily as he could hear the peak hour traffic outside.

His father would be proud of his boxing skills as much as he would have despised it. Matt is brought back to a time where his dad is giving him soft smiles, giving him sage advice in a gentle stern voice, his musky smell, his boxer bloodied hands running across Matt’s hair…

Next minute he’s on ground. The action is sudden and exhilarating and there’s a dull thud where blood rushes to his cheek.

“Fuck, Red. I’m sorry,” Frank says and he sounds like he means it too. Matt smiles, honest and sweet at his father’s memory or at Frank’s overt care. He doesn’t know. Both. He sits up.

“No, no,” Matt raises a palm to tell Frank he’s all right, “It’s fine. It’s good. These things are meant to happen when you box.” Matt shakes his head to loosen the stars in his mind. The action makes his right cheek throb. Definitely going to bruise.

“What happened?” Frank’s kneeling beside him now, his hands hovering over the side of Matt’s face. He’s so close Matt can feel Frank’s heat but Frank won’t touch him. “You blanked out on me.”

Matt smiles, fond of the memory that swam up for air in his mind’s eye. It’s been a while old friend, Matt thinks. “Nothing,” he says and then mumbles a, “worth it though.” He tries his best to look sickly innocent and there’s a hitch of breath from Frank. Job completed. “You can touch me, you know. I’m not fragile.”

He hears Frank scoff at the remark and can’t help but laugh. “Please. Don’t forget who’s the one who put that shiner on your muggy face.”

Matt pulls back from the closeness of Frank. He had misjudged their distance. “I’m shocked,” he replies, “I’ve always been told I’m utterly handsome.”

Frank reciprocates Matt’s need for space and Matt can’t help but feel a sudden chill at the loss, feels suddenly bereft. “And I’ve been told I only every date assholes.”

Matt can’t help but allow a smile to slide cheekily across his face. He quirks an eyebrow. “We dating?” He asks lightly but Matt can feel the weight of the question. The dam has broke, its floodgates wide open and the rush of water makes Matt hold his breath.

Frank’s gruff voice gets back to him. “You tell me, Red. What are we?” Either Matt’s delusional or he has relatively low emotional intelligence but if he hazard a guess, Frank’s tone lacks the frustration Matt would have predicted. He almost sounds almost patient. Strange…

Matt hears his father chuckle and replies in a frown, tilting his head towards the sound. “When did you get so unawareness, Matt?” His father hearty laughter echoes around the old gym.

He hears a chuckle not from his father’s. “You’re so strange, Murdock,” Frank states as he runs a finger down Matt’s jawline, as if he couldn’t resist. It’s Matt’s turn for hitched breaths and he can’t help but visibly shiver. That does nothing good for Frank’s ego. He can hear Frank chuckle again. “I wonder what’s going on in that head of yours to make you pout like a child.”

Matt makes a disgusted face, “I wasn’t pouting.” He has to sit on his hands to stop himself from crossing his arms like a petulant boy.

Frank ruffles his hair and presses to stand. Matt could hear Frank’s knees popping. “Sure you don’t, Red,” Frank humous and Matt catches himself pouting before he does it. That’ll show him.

When they leave the gym, Matt notices Frank doesn’t bring up the subject again. Just walks him home and kisses his left cheek and Matt can’t help but feel slightly disappointed that Frank never enquired what they were again. If he did, the answer would have been; _obviously._

The next day Foggy’s jumping to conclusion before he asks forcefully through gritted teeth, “did he do this to you?” and begins to touch Matt’s right cheek.

He understands completely. The anger, the cycle, the trauma passed on to Foggy. Matt nods, “we were boxing.”

He feels Foggy pull his arm back, shocked. “Is that supposed to be a euphemism?” Foggy bites.

Matt shakes his head. “No, it’s not like what you think. It’s not like Elek –“ he goes breathless. He tries again, “it’s not like _before._”

Maybe he looked a little distressed but he’s being honest and Foggy can always tell when something is hopelessly wrong and when Matt’s lies spin out of control and Matt guesses Foggy concludes that this isn’t the same. Frank isn’t the same cycle.

Frank is Foggy’s friend too.

“You promise?” Foggy’s voice now goes soft, relieved.

“Yeah,” Matt smiles, remembering Frank’s gentle ministrations, his curled lips, the notes of his belly guffaws, his smell; like love. “I promise.”

“At least tell me you won, Matt.”

*

Foggy’s answer is given when he sees Frank’s purple and blue face. He bends on over laughing. He’s wiping his eyes and fist bumping Matt while Frank dismisses, “yeah yeah yeah…”

*

He promises he hasn’t forgotten about her. She still swims in his mind, sometimes taunting him, sometimes loving him. Karen says he looks well and he busies himself with incoherent mumblings, the dreadful feeling of guilt overwhelming him.

That night he has a nightmare, El’s dead in his hands and he’s stabbed her and he’s _hit_ her and oh my God, El’s dead in his arms. “El! El!” He yells because maybe she hasn’t heard him the first fifty times he had pleaded her name.

But she’s cold to the touch. Then again, Elektra had always been cold. She used to tuck her freezing palms in the divot of his hips and steal his warmth. He would get a sudden shock and she would laugh and laugh.

Matt holds her dead body now, crying, shaking, pleading like a child, all the works and for a split second he thinks he can hear her giggle. Then he hears it before he feels it. Drip drip drip drip drips of liquid hitting concrete floors. He touches his temple and oh! He’s bleeding.

Matt wakes with a start and the silk sheets ensnare his limbs. He panics further, they’ve had him all tied up and her giggle echoes around his room and he swears, he _swears_ he can _see_ her. He _wishes_ he could see her.

Matt untangles himself and fingers the sheets to calm him, forces himself to breathe. It’s just a shadow, it’s just a dream.

They say the silk sheets are a little overboard, even for his OCD but they’re not really his. They’re _hers_ and Elektra wasn’t someone who did things in half measures. Sleek as silk she would say, silk as she he thought.

*

He waits for the other shoe to drop. Matt’s agitated, distracted. Foggy asks if he’s all right and Matt replies routinely, “I’m fine.”

He hears Foggy sigh, “why do I bother?”

Karen’s a little more pressing. She hovers like she doesn’t think Matt notices which irks him even more and by Friday Matt’s had enough of the eggshells in their office floor and decides to work from home.

Only that he doesn’t find the effort to work from home, just lies on his bed listening to Elektra scream at him, she’s crying and crying and only crying for the sake of sympathy. He tries his best to breathe. One batch, breathe, two batch, breathe, penny and a dime. She swats at his head to stop his distractions. She demands to be heard.

As he lies in bed, he briefly wonders if this is his final breakdown though the voice in his head told him no. Many a times has the world ended and started up again. He had survived worse. He could survive this. Though he is tired, so tired. Please, can he rest?

She becomes an echo now as Matt ponders the darkness, wading through her soft arms as she takes him further to the deep. He laughs at the irony, only El would shut up to let the depression gnaw him. Only the touch of darkness El would allow to embrace him.

He’s tired. Tired of an existence spent unloved. From the time of his birth, while his father tried to run his fingers through the knots of his soul that his mother had left, Matt was marked. And though he tried to find a home in himself, he could barely lay the concrete foundations to keep it aloft. He knew the word, but it scared him so. Afraid that if he spoke it aloud it would solidify its existence: _loneliness_. Matt laughed, he was so consumed in it. It drowned him and beat him like El.

Then there were no broken fingers to brush his soul anymore and that left two dark empty shadows in his life. He remembered his father’s gravestone, remembered the carving of his father’s name, wondered why he smelt blood on the sandstone as they pried him kicking and screaming from the place where his father rested.

Sister Maggie scolded him, told him he was disrespecting the dead as she bandaged his fingers. The rest of his life was a blur, a new period of tragedy called before Stick and after Stick and suddenly there were three dark shadows staring at him in his wake and in his dreams. They became so permanent. They loomed and they mocked but Matt did his best.

He now lives in the chapter of El and she’s a new addition to the family of shadows Matt lives with but she’s animated, she’s colour; grey if Matt could recall and blue when she’s hurling abuse at him.

*

It’s when she says he’s left her to die that he begins to panic after hours and hours of her abuse. He runs out the apartment shoeless and heads to the shore. Elektra’s ghost glides closely behind him. “Quickly, Matthew. Come now,” giggling.

He can hear it, the waves on the shore, the salt in the air, the buzzing particulates awaiting the storm. She’s going to take him, she’s going to steal him from this world. Matt can hear panicked panting, knows that it’s his but it doesn’t entirely feel it’s coming from him. Only memory could take him to the sea now.

But in the end, his feet don’t take him to the ocean, they take him to Frank’s apartment, and it wasn’t salt in the air that he tasted, it was his tears. He leaves El at the door, Frank bundles him up and leaves a whisper on his temple, “I’m here, Red,” and Matt releases the breath of air he’s been holding in since the world ended and started up again.

*

He wakes slowly, no rush of water to shock him, a languid moment where the sun caresses his chest before unhurriedly moving up to his neck and cheek. A hand runs through his hair.

“Mornin’, Red,” Frank says.

Matt tries to blink the sleep from his foggy brain. He’s parched, his head hurts from the trauma, the world spins. He squeezes his eyes shut, he wants to escape to the in between again.

He hears Frank pull back and settle himself in the chair that Matt knows is next to the bed. “There’s a glass to your left,” Frank aides.

Matt sits up mainly because he needs that glass of water like a man who’s been wandering lost in the desert for decades. He drinks the entire cup. “More?” Frank asks.

“I’m sorry,” Matt blurts out. How embarrassing. How shameful this all is.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Matt thinks, one day. One day he’ll be brave enough to tell. For this moment, he’s still afraid. He doesn’t trust his voice so Matt gives a little shake of the head. The movement hurts.

“That’s fine,” Frank says patiently. “You have years left to tell me,” he promises.

Matt tilts his head.

Years…


End file.
